Facebook Hates Me

But I will not let it break me.

I signed on this morning and immediately, up there in the corner with the event invites and friend suggestions, pops up a box with a picture that gives me butterflies and the direction: "Reconnect with him. Send him a message."

The "him" in this case is a boy I had been kind of fascinated with for a while and with whom I had hooked up this summer, upon which occasion I promptly fell head-over-heels, giddy-teenager-esque in love, as I am wont to do when it comes to beautiful and unusual, heart-meltingly sweet, sexually ambiguous 26-year-olds who also happen to be spectacular kissers. A week later he moved halfway across the country and I haven't seen or heard from him since.

So, masochist that I am, I decide, "Ok, sure, I'll just click on his page and see what he's up to." I am then promptly greeted with a picture of him with a girl. On the beach. And she's cuter than me. And probably younger, too.

God damn it.

It's not like I had expected him to be pining away with love for me or anything. I mean, "we" only lasted about one (glorious) week, and it was ages ago. In fact, I had been pretty succesful these last 6 months, after a brief period of pining and self-pity, and — ok, fine — maybe a few ill-advised drunken texts, at forgetting all about him (which is why I hadn't just deleted him from my friends and avoided this whole thing, as some of you are surely going to point out). But I probably could have gone without being confronted with hard evidence reminding me that I've been erased from memory. Which I would have if the Facebook gods hadn't tricked me into it.

Fucking Facebook.

I bet they even did it on purpose. I bet if I look at the date the picture was posted (which I won't because I am not an Internet stalker, I am not an Internet stalker, I am not an Internet stalker...), it'll be like, yesterday, and the evil overlords over at Facebook HQ probably noticed immediately and were all, "Ok, NOW! It's go time! Let's get her!"

And I can't even vent about it on Facebook, as I usually would, because he might see it and think I'm some kind of obsessive freak (which I am not, I am not, I am not...) and then my friends would try to cheer me up with well-intended sympathy that'll just make me think about it more, and so on and so forth...

DAMN YOU, FACEBOOK! I WILL NOT SUCCUMB TO YOUR TREACHERY!!!

...but I still haven't deleted him.

Lament

Oh, Thora Birch. Such high hopes I had for you. What has happened to your career trajectory?

American Beauty, Ghostworld ... The Pregnancy Pact?

On Lifetime??

Oh, honey. Just...no.

Late-Breaking Lame Claim To Fame: Volume IV

This just happened:

BeccaGo: @negativeneil Am I old enough for it to be creepy if I hit on you?
negativeneil: @BeccaGo yes you are

Boys and girls, that is Adam Lambert's brother personally shooting me down via Twitter.

Thank you, and good night!
[Special thanks to Dalia for coming to my defense during my absence.]

Pulp Friction

Another installment of unintentional filth found while editing mechanical engineering manuals:
[Special thanks to Angela and Mikey for their contributions.]

"Section 4-1: General Erection Requirements"

"B823: Hardness Control"

"A4: Bottom Soils"

"Part 2: Laying"

"8.6: Lubrication Failures"

"B16.25-2007: Buttwelding Ends"

"The ends shall be of sufficicent workmanship to allow for easy assembly with an appropriate mating nut."

"...when the taper encroaches on the crotch radius."

"...minimum elongation of the pull-tube riser..."

"Table HG-715: Size of Bottom Blowoff Piping, Valves, and Cocks"

"Texas Screw Products"

"National Erectors Association"

"Gaylord Industries"

"Federal Screw Works"

"welded joint: a union of two or more members"

"incident: unintentional release of gas"

Lame Claims To Fame: Volume III

My sister works for a theater organization, and as such, she has taken calls from certain recognizable talents. Consummate professional that she is, she then usually excitedly relays the details of the interaction to this pop-culture-obsessed sibling of hers via text message. Some recent celeb connections of which I have been informed include Adam Lambert's mom and one of the beauty queens from The Amazing Race. Somewhat above them in the hierarchy are my two favorite encounters of her career thus far: Wallace Shawn and Ernie Hudson, perhaps better known as Vizzini from The Princess Bride and Winston from Ghostbusters. I was disappointed to learn, however, that she hadn't somehow been able to work "Inconceivable!" or "The black one was the best Ghostbuster!" into her respective conversations with them. But she did manage to mention how awesome The Crow was to Mr. Hudson, so respect must be paid.

On a similar note, I once worked as a receptionist for a cheesy German dance-remix record label/music distribution company whose American headquarters were inexplicably located in West Babylon, ideally situated just down the block from the dump, where I was lucky enough to once answer a phone call from Eric Nies of Real World 1 and MTV's The Grind fame.

Try not to be jealous.

Ice Queen

Ladies and gentlemen, just when you thought the sport of men's figure skating couldn't possibly get any gayer, I present Johnny Weir as Lady GaGa!

Check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous, bitches! ;)

Lame Claims To Fame: Volume II

If you've been reading along at home, you may remember that I've previously alluded to my passing obsession with pro wrestling. And if memory serves, you may also recall that I've occasionally implied that my brother is nuts. These points are both relevant to the following tale.

September, 1999. Monday Night Raw, broadcasting live from Nassau Coliseum. First match of the night. If you look at just the right moment, over the left shoulder of The Big Show, you will see, about five rows up from the floor, a young man of above-average height next to a young woman in a black tank top standing on her chair and holding, above her head, a green cardboard sign with white block letters.

Those letters, merely a blur on-screen, spell out the immortal term:

"GUMBYHUMPER"

...which not only has absolutely nothing to do with the match at hand, or with wrestling at all, for that matter, neither of us — despite its origin in the warped mind of my brother himself — have ever even pretended to understand what it means. But we got ourselves on TV, baby!!!

Raw is War, y'all. ;)

My Cat Could Totally Be On America's Next Top Model

He has a very versatile look.

For example, his "editorial" side:

And some of his "commercial" work:

FIERCE!

Lame Claims To Fame: Volume I

I went to high school with former Olympian and MLB relief pitcher Billy Koch.

He was a year younger and way more popular than I was, so I didn't technically "know" him, but he was once, for whatever reason, at a local roller rink with his friends the same night as me and my friends (most likely, to make fun of the people like us who, as high school seniors, voluntarily spent our Friday nights at places like the roller rink instead of, say, drinking in a parking lot), and during "couples skate," one of the roller-cops/amateur matchmakers forcibly paired him with me and demanded we skate together, I think mainly because he was the only guy there who was taller than I was. That was our first and only personal interaction.

Unrelatedly, before attaining his actual "famous person" status, Mr. Koch had already been firmly cemented in West Babylon High School legend as the guy who got his ass kicked outside the cafeteria by Phil Iacono.

I'll Never Let Go...

Does anyone else do that thing when you're watching a movie where you try to hold your breath for as long as the character does when they're underwater? I'm watching Titanic (don't ask) and I swear I almost just passed out.

I Love My Country, But I Think We Should Start Seeing Other People

I pledge disturbance
with the plans
of the United States of America,
for our republic
is broken and
our nation's
obsessed with God
but still quibbling
over civil rights
and healthcare for all.

Intervention

Dear Lifetime Television Network:

Stop trying to make Models Of The Runway happen. It's not going to happen.

Sincerely,
BeccaGo

Do The Right Thing

I was supposed to give blood yesterday at my office blood drive, but after two stabs (pun totally intended) at a preliminary iron count, I came up one tenth of a point too low. I asked the guy if he could just fudge the number a little for me, but he simply smiled and said, "Sorry, you'll have to try again another time." Fail. :(

I used to donate regularly at the Long Island Blood Center when I still lived at home. I gave platelets once a month — they're used to help cancer patients and organ transplant recipients, and they have a shelf life of only 5 days, so they're pretty much in constant demand. I have A+ blood (I like to pronounce it "A plus"), which is the best type for platelet donation, so that kind of made me an apheresis superstar. As the American Red Cross donation website states, "During an apheresis donation, blood is drawn into a machine which separates the platelets from the rest of the blood. The platelets are collected in a donation bag, while the rest of the blood is returned to the donor." Basically: blood out one arm, spin it around and subtract the sticky part, then back in the other. The process took over an hour but it was actually kind of fun — you get a big, comfy reclining chair and your own private TV and headphones, and because both arms are incapacitated by needles and tubing, you can get the medical staff to do almost anything for you: "Excuse me, could I get a blanket, please? And could you possibly change this channel for me? And maybe itch right below my right eye, too? Little lower — perfect! Thanks!"

They also give you cookies afterward.

So yesterday's rejection has motivated me to find a new donation center near my new place and to start giving again. Anyone in the area who'd care to join me can go to the New York Blood Center website for more information.

And while we're on the topic, everyone could use a little help sometimes. Some could use a lot. If you want to help in other ways and would like some suggestions, I support and recommend these following organizations:

Doctors Without Borders/Medecins Sans Frontieres — particularly for their current relief work in Haiti

Habitat For Humanity — to make a donation or to volunteer

Heifer International — my all-time favorite charity: members of my family get "chickens," "llamas," "bees," and "tree saplings" for Christmas every year

Give what you can, if you can. We're all human beings, and it's good karma.

Long Live Rock 'N' Roll!

The Brooklyn Museum is huge.

At least, it's bigger than I expected. I feel like I'm wandering through a lavishly furnished labyrinth on my way to the "Who Shot Rock & Roll" photography exhibit. This is the Museum's current big draw, and it's a rainy Sunday during a holiday weekend, so of course it's crowded, and if you've read my previous museum post, you know how much I love crowds. There are also more kids running around than I expected. I can't imagine a rowdy 6-year-old is actually going to appreciate black and white photos of Bob Dylan and Iggy Pop, and thus begins that slow buildup of breeder-induced irritation I've lately become afflicted with.* Then I spot a Georgia O'Keeffe painting in one of the galleries I pass through.** This makes me smile. I take it as a good omen.

*As a former English major and an editor, I acknowledge the preposition ending this sentence, and I quote Winston Churchill on the topic: "That is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put!"

**Yeah, I know I did it again.

I eventually exit the maze and arrive at my destination to be greeted by a giant wall-size poster of David Lee Roth's face. Not exactly sure what kind of omen that is. The exhibit inside is arranged somewhat chronologically, so, unsurprisingly, the first subject is Elvis Presley. There's a video of one of his SHOCKING (tee hee) sexually charged performances of "Heartbreak Hotel" and — because I'm a feverish, worshipful fan who finds parallels everywhere (never mind one who has played the entire "For Your Entertainment" CD back-to-back so many times that I can now play the strings section from "Soaked" on my oft-neglected viola) — my instinctive response is: ADAM.

Yes, we've had this conversation before: I love Adam Lambert. Not "I'm-totally-getting-a-sex-change-just-to-make-out-with-you" love, more just "it-makes-me-happy-that-you-exist" love. Like the way I love Habitat For Humanity or Häagen-Dazs Five ice cream. Only much prettier to look at.***

***His brother Neil, on the other hand, is "I-want-to-abduct-you-and-handcuff-you-to-my-bed" love. Really — big words and unbridled sarcasm are such a turn-on...

So, this glittery alien vs. 'The King': both labeled "controversial," for their innovative musical styles as well as for oozing sexiness. Hordes of foaming-at-the-mouth girl fanatics: check and check. There's a photo in the gallery of Elvis kissing an anonymous (female) fan, pre-fame; I know you've all seen those SCANDALOUS (tee hee) pictures of pre-Idol Adam kissing (a boy) on the Interwebz (or The O'Reilly Factor). They even kind of look alike. Or maybe it's just the hair...

I admit, maybe I'm reaching — who knows if he'll end up being as revolutionary in retrospect? But the boy has undeniable talent and distinct star quality, and he's definitely got things all shook up.

Reading the didactic labels (yes, I just learned that phrase today) for each Elvis photo, and with Mr. Lambert still on the brain, a line jumps out at me: "his blend of charm and sexuality." As a writer, my first thought is, "Yes — nailed it!" A spot-on description so succinctly put, I almost want to clap. I mean, there are plenty of hot guys who wear eyeliner in the music industry (I'm looking at you, Dave Navarro and Billie Joe Armstrong) that I'm sure many find more attractive than Adam Lambert (Dear Glamberts: Please don't kill me), but what hooked me is he also seems to be just a charming and, in the words of Chelsea Handler, "very normal" guy. As in — and this is what I believe may set me apart from the majority of his female fans — I'd rather hug him than fuck him. Not that any of us chicks even have that chance, but you know what I'm saying. And as I've stated before, I sometimes wish the Lamberts would adopt me, you know, just so we could play board games and stuff.

I conclude my visit 3 hours later, standing mesmerized for a good 15 to 20 minutes in front of the video for David Bowie's "Life On Mars."

I just can't get enough of guys wearing eye makeup.

I'm "Special"

Why are bananas the only fruits that taste better when they're not ripe?

UPDATE: And why can't I ever spell the word "bananas" without singing it à la Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl"? I just did it again, right there.

I'm Special

Know what I love? When the subway is so crowded that instead of grabbing onto a pole, I have to brace myself against the ceiling. Seriously — not many girls can do that. Kinda makes me feel like a superhero.

George Lucas Is Clearly On A Mission To Destroy His Own Legacy

So today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and in rememberance of this notable individual and his historic achievements, I'm watching this Star Wars marathon on Spike. Obviously. 'Cause that's how us sci-fi/fantasy, alternate-universe nerd-girl/space-junkies roll: Star Wars, Aliens, Terminator (yes, even Rise Of The Machines — you got a problem?), The Matrix, 12 Monkeys — I'm all over it. There. I said it. I'm not ashamed.

Anyway...it's not a marathon of the originals, only the new ones, or, as I like to refer to them, "Revenge Of The Shit." Seriously. I mean, as much as I love Natalie Portman (and those Amidala costumes — to die!!!), the CGI characters give more nuanced and less stiff performances. And God bless Ewan MacGregor, hard as he tries, even he can't save these films from atrocity. I believe the most glaring fault of this inferior trilogy can be summed up in a single name:

Jar-Jar Binks.

That's right, it's pretty much unanimous among EVERYONE IN THE DAMN WORLD that Jar-Jar blows womprats. Pure, Grade-A, CGI bantha-shit. And I find it ironic, considering the holiday our nation is currently celebrating, that he is also considered the most condescending racial stereotype of a "character" in the Star Wars universe. I think the SNL skit from a few years ago put it pretty succintly:

"Mee-sa Jar-Jar Binks! Mee-sa go pee pee and poo poo and kaka!"

So, yeah, I freakin' hate Jar-Jar, and right now I'm up to Attack Of The Clones, and what do you know, here comes the scene in the Senate where they vote to give Chancellor Palpatine — you know, the guy who oh-so-subtly morphs into the evil Emperor and basically FUCKS UP THE ENTIRE GALAXY — immediate emergency powers, and who is it who proposes this motion that will lead to TOTALLY WIPING OUT the Jedi and basically MAKING LIFE SUCK FOR EVERYONE? Why, hey — it's Jar-Jar!

IT'S ALL JAR-JAR'S FAULT!

*phew*

So, Mr. Lucas, if for nothing else, thank you for giving us, the outraged audience, this small measure of poetic justice in an otherwise shitastic series of vomitous self-indulgence.

And by the way, can we all just agree to pretend that The Last Crusade was the final Indiana Jones movie and that Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull never existed? Or was just a bad, bad dream? Thanks.

City Of Dreams

Last night I saw Eddie Izzard at Madison Square Garden. Physically getting myself to this performance entailed leaving my apartment at 6:30, walking a block and a half to catch the Q, going all of 6 stops, getting off the train at Herald Square, and walking another 2 blocks to the Garden. This got me into my seat by 7:30, half an hour before showtime, giving me plenty of time to settle in and watch the Jumbotron: Mr. Izzard had his Twitter page up live onscreen and his avalanche of @replies was scrolling by for all to enjoy. There were the expected sorts of comments:

"@eddieizzard Hello from Row G, Section 202!"
"@eddieizzard SHARON WILL YOU MARRY ME?"
"@eddieizzard DAD I'M GAY"
"to the guy in the blue checkered shirt sitting in front of me: shut the fuck up. you know who you are. @eddieizzard"
"At the @eddieizzard show at MSG. Brought my flag in case anyone tries to claim my seat. :)"

But I also noticed some people who seemed to be Tweeting from out-of-town:

"In NYC this weekend to see @eddieizzard! Best birthday present EVER!"
"@eddieizzard: We came all the way from Kentucky to see you. You better be good! LOL"
"Baltimore loves @eddieizzard!"
"Can't believe I'm in Madison Square Garden right now waiting for @eddieizzard! Loving this trip to NY!"

I swear, I even spotted someone claiming they had flew in from Turkey to see their favorite action transvestite in, uh, action. Man, I thought, people have crossed oceans to get to this show. Made an entire vacation of it. I merely crossed a bridge and walked a few feet. It started to occur to me, skimming these many abbreviated missives, that I had begun to take for granted my plum position on this planet.

This realization put me in mind of a thread on one of my message boards (can it — my entire social life is conducted online, ok?) in which the merits of different states as places of residence were being debated. Because this was the Interwebz and the board members were from all over the place, each arguing for their own home state, things were starting to look ugly for New York: "It's dirty. It's so expensive. There's too much crime. The weather sucks. New Yorkers are rude."

I could not let this stand, this disparagement of my beloved locale. By God, I was born and raised here! As those who know me well know, if the issue of citizenship is ever in question, I am a New Yorker first, an American second. Thus, I mounted my defense:

"I live in Brooklyn. It's not the greatest neighborhood in terms of trendiness or gentrification, but the lack of tragically hip art students could be a selling point, and I'm not afraid to walk home alone after dark. Plus, my apartment is huge by NYC studio standards, and the location is of ultimate convenience — walking distance to the subway, supermarket, library, laundromat, pizza place and Prospect Park. And by 'walking distance,' I mean from 3-4 blocks to literally right next door. And it's only about a 40-minute commute to midtown Manhattan.

My expenses — rent, utilities, food, phone, cable, laundry, transportation, even my therapist — come to less than $2,000 a month. Even with my crappy salary, that still leaves a few hundred to play. I suppose a big chunk of that is that I don't have a car anymore (not even necessary), my loans are paid off, and I have no credit cards. But I also don't make any money off of poker, and my daddy doesn't pay for squat.

Granted, it gets noisy, the weather can get crappy, and yes, sometimes people can be rude, but I think this is more than made up for by the fact that I LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY! This place never sleeps! I have access to some of the greatest shit in the world! Some people give up everything just to get here; some spend their whole lives just dreaming of it. For my whole life, I've been lucky enough to live no more than an hour's train ride away. So fine — maybe I'm a little biased, but damn it, I fuckin' love NY!"

Never hurts to remind myself of that. :)

Things You Wouldn't Necessarily Guess By Looking At Me

1. I play poker.

[Yes, I realize the hand pictured is only a pair of Aces and not a royal flush. It was pre-game — I didn't set up the props.]

2. I used to be a roller girl.

Peta Sassin, #AK-47, Long Island Roller Rebels

3. I wanted to be a WWE Diva.

...

*Ok, I swear to God I own an autographed Polaroid picture of me and Lita, and I just tore up my place looking for it, but it is nowhere to be found. I'm scouring the attic for it next time I visit home. I will produce this priceless piece of photographic evidence if it is the last thing I ever do, damn it! I dare you to doubt my integrity!

Street Crud

Perhaps memory fails me, but didn't sidewalk vendor pretzels once used to be good? Why do they now taste like I'm eating a sidewalk?

Mourning

Part I

Today, the underwire of my favorite leopard-print bra snapped while I was wearing it.

Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of silence.

And a Band-Aid for where it kept stabbing me in the ribs, too, please. Thanks.

Part II

Dear Boy In The Wool Trench Coat Who Got Off The Q Train At Canal St.:

Men as pretty as you should not be allowed to exist. You pain us mere mortals/straight women with your unattainable beauty.

Sorry about the staring.

Fun Film Facts!

Catherine Keener has played a character named 'Adele' in two separate movies. Name them.

Or, you know, don't. It's not like there's a prize or anything. I just thought it was cool. *shrug*

How To Win Friends And Analyze Myself To Death

Disclaimer: I am possibly the most socially awkward person on the planet.

It's like reverse stage fright — put me under a spotlight in front of hundreds of people and I'll sing, dance, strip or tell jokes without shedding a drop of sweat. Sit me down across the table from a co-worker at lunch or let me loose at a party without a wingperson, however, and I suddenly become Rain Man. I flounder when it's one-on-one. It's embarrassing and crippling to practically every aspect of my existence, from my career prospects to my love life. I mean, first dates are hard enough to get through without a Greek chorus of hyper-critical mental patients screaming at you from inside your own head and rendering you essentially immobile, you know?

Luckily for you, loyal readers, I come off much more charming and witty in writing than I do in real life.

Um...right?

Anyway, I can basically boil it all down to one simple diagnosis: I don't know how to talk to people. Unless the occasion calls for an Eddie Izzard quote, I have no idea how to start conversations. Even simple ones. For example, the girl standing next to me on the subway is wearing the same shade of blue nail polish as me, and I can't even bring myself to say, "Hey, nice nail polish!" I rationalize this to myself by noting that she's listening to an iPod, and something so trivial is surely not worth interrupting her musical interlude. Then I think, well, I could still do the mime version (point to her nails/point to mine/thumbs-up), but I still don't because...uh...well, I have no idea, really. See?

Of course, there was the time I actually worked up the nerve to say something to that guy on the train with the saxophone case. What I said was: "Hey, is that a saxophone?"

"Why, yes it is," he says and smiles.

"Oh. Cool."

*facepalm*

So tonight on the way home from work, I notice that the boy with the Elvis Costello glasses sitting next to me is reading a book by Gregory Maguire, and it trips this train of thought: "Hey, Gregory Maguire — isn't that the guy who wrote Wicked? I wonder if this guy's read Wicked. Or seen the play. I liked the play. The book was too weird for me. I didn't even finish it, which is also weird for me. Maybe I would have liked it better if I hadn't seen the show first..." And suddenly it occurs to me, hey — this could be a conversation! And he's not wearing an iPod! Here's my opening! But wait — what if he's reading because he doesn't want to be disturbed?

I agonize over this conundrum all the way from Bleecker to DeKalb, at which point my potential bookworm friend exits the train and I cease agonizing and commence kicking myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity instead. Thus, the vicious cycle.

So, what I'm asking for, loyal readers, is your help. What am I doing wrong here? How do normal people talk to each other? Where is that fine line between "friendly stranger" and "annoying and/or creepy stranger" located? The future health of my social life, never mind the possibility of me ever getting laid again, may depend on your assistance. Please, find it in your heart to contribute to the cause. Thank you for your time.

Hello, Goth Kids!

Dave Navarro and Sasha Grey at the AVN Awards, or, as I like to call it, "What I Wish My Prom Had Really Been Like":

[Click the pic for full-size awesomeness]

Welcome to my nightmare... *evil grin*

Soap Opera

So, today was laundry day. It simply came time to face the fact that I have been wearing the same pair of jeans for the last three days, using dish towels to wash my face, and substituting the bottom halves of my bikinis for underwear, and that I could afford to put it off no longer. So I load up my wheelie-cart until it's practically overflowing, arm myself with liquid detergent and quarters, and embark on the arduous journey.

Let it be known that there is a perfectly fine laundry room in the basement of my apartment building that I never use because A: my mother put the fear of God into me when I first moved in by relating horror stories about unaccompanied young women being brutally attacked in desolate basement laundry rooms and offering the advice to only go down there in the daytime and to carry pepper spray, and B: I have an irrational fear that my clothes would emerge smelling like a basement itself, coming out worse than when they went in. Luckily, there is a bright and modern laundromat only 2 buildings down from mine, so I frequent it often.

...Ok, fine, maybe not often enough.

Anyway...

Let it also be known that I live in a predominantly black neighborhood. "Predominantly" meaning there are often stretches during which my reflection in store windows is the only white person I see on the street for days. I have no problem with this, but having lived most of my life on Long Island, aka Wonder Bread Manor, it's definitely a new perspective.

So imagine my surprise when I stroll into the laundromat this afternoon and come face-to-face with a white boy sitting by one of the machines. A cute white boy. Writing in a journal, even! Be still my heart!

And of course, I realize upon this revelation, I'm wearing pajama pants and no makeup, my hair's completely disheveled, and I have to steer past him with an unwieldly heap of dirty underwear on wheels. I can really think of no better condition under which to start a flirtation than this.

Coward that I am, I avoid eye contact as I pass, sneak a sidelong look at him while shoveling my clothes into the machines, and leave the place by a completely circuitous route so I don't have to risk passing by him again. But I have a plan.

See, I'm going out later to see a friend bellydance, and I had planned to get ready after going back and picking up my clothes, but now I decide to doll myself up before heading back to the 'mat; this way when I run into Pretty Hipster Boy again, I'll be fully prepared. I want to look appropriately bellydance-ish, or at least as much as one can while garbed in skinny jeans and thigh-high boots, so I load on the bangles and the gauzy scarves and the exotic eye makeup and I'm off to retrieve my precious.

Unfortunately, by the time I get back, my boy toy is done and gone, so I now just look like a freakshow who's way too overdressed for the laundromat.

God damn it.

If anyone asks I'm telling them this is the only clean outfit I had left.

The Two Greatest Things You Will Ever See In Your Life

Just doing my part to improve the disposition of the planet. You can thank me later.

Separate Ways: Literal Video Version

Total Eclipse Of The Heart: Literal Video Version

Foreign Affairs [Abridged]

Text message exchange with my brother:

Bruzza: "Australian gov't tells Japan to stop whaling or face legal action. Japanese gov't completely ignores them."
Songbird: "Japanese gov't obviously dickheads."

Super-Urgent Crucial Information

Today, I lost my left contact.

Because I don't have my glasses with me, I am now wearing my giant bug-eye, face-eating prescription sunglasses around the office in order to see.

I also don't have my contact case with me, so my now-removed right contact is currently sitting on a Post-It on my desk.

Discovery: A contact lens left exposed to the elements will shrivel up and stiffen like a Shrinky-Dink.

Pretty neat.

Trick Or Treat!

Like all women who fall somewhere between "Victoria’s Secret model" and "not in an advanced state of decomposition" on the Physical Attractiveness Continuum, I've had my (small, but still…) share of unwanted attention from strangers. And again, like all women, I find the majority of these encounters creepy. But there's also a part of me that kind of loves them, for their sheer absurdity. Like that time the guy on the street sang me the Filet O' Fish jingle, or the time I pretended to be a deaf-mute with that guy in the pizza place, or when that crazy guy on the train was convinced I was a foot fetishist. Fun times. Especially when there's an audience: I was waiting for the subway one night when this guy stumbles over and makes his clumsy, drunken advances; I tell him, sorry, I have a boyfriend (which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to outright hurt these psychos' feelings). He then slurs, "Well, you can't blame me for trying, right?" and proceeds, as he walks away pointing at me, to individually poll every other person on the platform, "You can't blame me for trying, right? I mean, I had to try, right?" Every time one of the people he's shouting at and consequently spitting on looks quizzically in my direction, I wave like I'm on a parade float and give them a thumbs-up. What can I say — I'm an entertainer.

But if there were ever a night for the freaks to come out and play, it's Halloween. I am a lunatic for Halloween. It's like my high holy day. I usually start planning the next year's costume as soon as I change out of the one I was just wearing. Over the past several years I have been: a Ninja, a Manson Girl (vintage '70s outfit covered in fake blood), a Hindu Goddess, a Geisha, Medusa, Pregnant Britney Spears, Dead Princess Di (I know, I'm going to hell for that one), a Vegas Showgirl, Tia Dalma from Pirates of the Caribbean, and — perhaps my all-time fave — Lara Croft: Womb Raider (Lara Croft, only pregnant and wearing a baby carrier with some "ethnic" baby dolls in it). All homemade. I'm telling you, I go ALL. OUT. The year that I was Medusa, I won a costume contest at work. The prize was $50. The costume cost me $80 to make. I still considered it a victory.

So this year I dressed up as Adam Lambert, because I secretly want to be him, and as a companion piece to my sister's Lady GaGa. We were fuckin' fabulous. See for yourselves:





And trust me, when you're walking through the Village next to a drunken, stick-thin, 6-foot blonde in fishnets and a leotard covered in sparkles, you're bound to get some attention. Especially when you're also walking in these boots:



At one point, we pass by a bunch of construction-worker-looking guys avoiding the rain under some sidewalk scaffolding. They start hootin' and hollerin', and little sister, in her semi-inebriated state, decides it would be funny to wave at them, go "HAAA-AAAYYY!" and sashay away like a drag queen on the catwalk. The guys get louder and rowdier, and I yell after her, "If they start chasing us, I'm gonna kill you! You know I can't run in these damn shoes!"

Later on we are safely ensconced in a new bar, hanging out by the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the street. Because I'm wearing a headset, sitting on a stool, and facing outside in order to watch the parade of crazies, people start mistaking me for the doorperson and showing me their IDs. I try to finagle a "cover charge" out of a few of them, but since I'm wasted and can't keep a straight face, this scheme sadly doesn't work.

Then this guy comes at me. After initially hitting on my sister and getting nowhere because she's too busy lurch-dancing like a spastic cripple, he's moved over to my side of the table and feeds me the old "You two are so hot, you must be sisters!" line. Now, I've been drinking steadily and running from bar to bar in the rain for hours at this point, the wig I'm wearing feels like a wet cat sitting on my head, and I can actually feel the eyeliner smeared down my face. There is no way I believe this guy actually thinks I look "hot." So, of course, I laugh in his face.

"No, really!" he insists. "You look so much alike!"

This is when I decide, since I am dressed like a man, to reveal to Romeo that yes, you're right, we are related, but I'm not her sister — I'm her brother.

Loverboy freezes, then begins vehemently refuting my claim. "No way, you're lying. I'm not stupid." But I saw that moment of panic in his eyes. Had I been in my right mind, I should have offered to unzip my pants and prove it, just to see his reaction. I really regret not trying this out.

So, boys and girls, the moral of this story, I suppose: I may not be a hot, leggy blonde, but it's reassuring to know that I at least make a pretty gay boy. ;)

RIP Chris

Today I learned that someone I used to work with was stabbed and beaten to death.

Because he was gay.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE???

Smack In The Pulpit

About a month or so ago, I went to see the Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit at the Whitney Museum of American Art. I went on a Friday night, because that's "pay-what-you-wish" night and I'm a cheap/broke bastard. I'd never been to the Whitney before, and I was expecting to just show up and stroll on in, so it was a little disconcerting to get there and see a line of people waiting to enter snaking around the block. Apparently, "pay-what-you-wish" night is a big draw.

I've always loved Georgia O'Keeffe artwork. I've had the same "Dark Iris" and "Red Amaryllis" posters on my bedroom walls since college, and every year, my mom gives me a new Georgia O'Keeffe desk calendar for Christmas. It's the gift that keeps on giving: flipping the page to the next stunning, vaguely sexual flower is like opening a brand-new present at the beginning of every month.

This particular exhibit, though, is focused on her early abstract work. I'm really only familiar with her flowers, so I'm a little nervous that I might find these paintings disappointing and they might spoil her for me (I hold my heroes to very high standards). Exiting the elevator on the third floor and coming face-to-face with a giant oil-on-canvas mural of clouds and blue sky is the first indication that I have nothing to fear. I'm already hooked.

My relief, however, is short-lived, and by no fault of Ms. O'Keeffe. The adjacent elevator opens behind me and disgorges a motley, murmuring guided-tour group. Groan. I enter the gallery in an attempt to head them off as the tour guide begins to cheerily corral her charges.

Unfortunately for me, I'm one of those people who stands and stares at paintings like Cameron in the museum scene of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, so the tour group overtakes me by, like, the fourth painting. There's a moment of panic when I find myself adrift amidst them. I manage to pull my little journal out of my bag and escape to a bench on the other side of the room to write down some impressions and the titles of the works that I like until the mob is safely out of earshot and the room feels spacious again.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm really fun at concerts.

So now I'm back to comfortably strolling, staring in dazzled, slack-jawed awe, and being reprimanded by museum security for getting dangerously close to the paintings and occasionally and hypnotically reaching out to touch one. I'm like a 13-year-old boy who's just discovered free Internet porn — I'm that entranced. Whoa...look at those colors! OMG, I can actually see the brushstrokes!!!

I'm rooted in place in front of these two paintings:

when I eventually sense another presence. The tour group has dispersed (how long have I been standing here?), and there's a trio of former tourists who appear to be a father and two daughters now standing behind me (how long have I been blocking these poor people's view?). "Oh! Excuse me," I apologize and step aside. And then Dad lets loose with this declaration:

"Now, see, this is finally a good one! It's got bright colors; it's got energy! This one is just all white and boring. It's depressing."

"It's not depressing!" I retort in mock-anger, valiant defender of my artistic idol. "It glows! It's angelic!"

Now, it wouldn't have been so bad if the guy had then said, "Well, I think it's depressing because..." No, what he instead chose to say — and in a very let-me-lecture-this-poor-ignorant-fool-who-doesn't-know-any-better tone of voice — was: "No, it's not. It's just depressing." And this is when I must fight the seether.

Sir, I am a college-educated, self-sufficient, grown adult, fully capable of forming my own opinions, who — if I may be my severely elitist and judgmental (not-so-)hidden self for just a moment — by the looks of it, has been to far more fine art exhibitions than you (that number being "4"). I'd appreciate it, especially since you just emerged from a tour for which you willingly signed up and in which you learned the background and significance of each piece from a professional art historian, if you didn't dictate your daughters' perceptions to them or attempt to school me in the respected tradition of "I Don't Like It Because It Doesn't Match My Furniture" art criticism.

I only say this in my head, though, because I'm already on bad terms with security. Instead, I stare unblinkingly at The Professor and smile malevolently until he backs away with his progeny and I can go back to gazing in peace.

To quote an exchange from The Corrections:

"Well, everyone is entitled to their own taste."
"Yes, but some people's tastes are better than others."

Things That Make Me Uncomfortable

The phrase "making love."

People who blow their nose really thoroughly in public.

Co-workers who insist on carrying on a conversation while you're in adjacent bathroom stalls.

Eating a banana in front of someone.

Subway missionaries — not the crazy ones who scream about burning in Hell (they're fun to toy with), but the ones who just stand there, silently holding up pamphlets and smiling beatifically.

When someone in my party asks the waitress a lot of questions before ordering.

Those toilet paper commercials with the cartoon bears.

Picturing Tiger Woods having sex with anyone.

When people sitting next to me on the train are reading books with titles like "Healing Through The Catholic Mass."

Turning down those kids who go door-to-door selling candy or magazine subscriptions to help them "get an education" or "stay off the streets."

When you ask someone where they were the other day and instead of just answering "I was sick," they explain in detail the consistency of the phlegm they were coughing up or their 24-hour bout of diarrhea.

The word "diarrhea."

Interacting with anyone in a position of authority.

Hamsters.

Funerals.

Dating.

Here + Queer = Used To It

Theorem: All the hot guys are gay.

Let A = 'hot' and B = 'gay.'

Given: If A then B. [1]

[Note: ~ = 'not;' :: = 'therefore']

Problem: Using Survivor, Project Runway, and American Idol as examples, prove that while the contrapositive of the above statement, ~B = ~A (i.e., all the straight guys are busted) [2], is true, the converse statement, B = A (i.e., all gay guys are hot) [3], is false. Show your work.

Example 1: American Idol
1. Adam Lambert = A (hot) + B (gay) :: TRUE
2. Taylor Hicks = ~B (not gay) + ~A (not hot) :: TRUE
3. Clay Aiken = B (gay) + ~A (not hot) :: FALSE

Example 2: Project Runway
1. Daniel Vosovic = A + B :: TRUE
2. Jeffrey Sebelia = ~B + ~A :: TRUE
3. Chris March = B + ~A :: FALSE

Example 3: Survivor
1. Todd Herzog (China) = A + B :: TRUE
2. Rupert Boneham (Pearl Islands) = ~B + ~A :: TRUE
3. Richard Hatch (Borneo) = B + ~A :: FALSE

Bonus Example: The 'Liberals vs. Conservatives' Factor
1. Anderson Cooper = A + B :: TRUE
2. Rush Limbaugh = ~B + ~A :: TRUE
3. Ann Coulter = ~A + X (tranny) :: FALSE

Goaty's Haiku Korner

Some original works by my brother:

"Christmas time is great.
Everyone loves each other.
I have glaucoma."

"Mr. Miyagi,
Daniel-san's karate friend.
Man, he could clear house."

Why Traveling To Long Island Makes Me Glad I No Longer Live There

So I'm taking the LIRR home for Thanksgiving. It's the day before (you know, the one informally known as "the biggest party night of the year"); I've got an overstuffed tote bag and a cat with me; and, luckily, I've got an express from Flatbush Ave. straight to Babylon. Because the car's already crowded and I don't want to be one of those people who takes up more seats than they need to, I'm sitting on one of the fold-down, handicapped-reserved benches with my bag on the floor and the cat carrier on the bench across from me. When we stop at Jamaica, a whole new throng of people crowd on. I rearrange myself so 2 more people can squeeze onto the benches with me and Boo, but there are still people standing in the aisle and the little vestibule area by the doors. The conductor attempts to come through and collect tickets.

And then...

A stereotypical entitled princess-type, oblivious to her rolling suitcase smacking into everyone behind her as she pushes her way through the crush of people, stomps up to the conductor and yells, "ExCUSE me! Does this train go to Montauk?"

"Change at Babylon."

"NO," she snaps, and repeats, like one of those people who thinks that just saying it louder will help the foreigner understand, "does THIS TRAIN go to MONTAUK?"

"You have to change at Babylon," the conductor tells her irritably. Can't say I blame the guy.

"You mean I have to transfer TWICE?!?"

The guy across the aisle from me snorts and mumbles, "Well, it is 100 miles away, lady."

Princess gets all huffy, turns back to the conductor and says snottily, "Well, thanks for your HELP! I don't know what's up YOUR ass!"

People are flat-out laughing at her now and I'm thinking, "Up his ass...?"

Princess Pompous storms off, complaining, "I don't know why it doesn't just go straight to Montauk."

Well, sweetheart, maybe it's because the train across the platform that says 'MONTAUK' on the side in big red lights is the one that goes straight to Montauk, and maybe you'd realize that if you tried to figure it out for yourself instead of expecting other people to do it for you...? Just a guess.

She then proceeds to drop her suitcase on the head of her lucky traveling companion while trying to place it on the overhead rack, laugh obnoxiously about it, get sloppy drunk and spill her drink on aforementioned traveling companion, and talk loudly on her cell phone, bitching about her horrid 'ordeal,' for the rest of the ride.

You know, I always think people on the subway are rude and inconsiderate, until I remember that the people taking the Long Island Rail Road are rude, inconsiderate, and Long Islanders.

No sleep 'til Brooklyn, yo.